


(A bunch of) One Shot(s) at Love

by Simon_snows_pitch



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, Kissing, M/M, Queer Themes, a collection of one shots
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-17
Updated: 2020-08-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 03:01:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 7,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24766603
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Simon_snows_pitch/pseuds/Simon_snows_pitch
Summary: I write a lot of one shots on my blog (most of them filled with fluff), so I'll collect them all here. I've rated this "General," but there may be some that appear which are intended for teen and up. I'll add any pertinent info/warnings to each Chapter Summary.Thanks for checking these out, and please leave feedback if you have any!
Relationships: Snowbaz - Relationship, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch & Simon Snow, Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch/Simon Snow
Comments: 13
Kudos: 76





	1. Cheeky - Domestic Fluff (and a butt)

**Simon**

Tuesday mornings are the best. 

Penny has an early class, and Baz doesn’t. With everything that’s changed since leaving Watford, Baz still refuses to wake before eight o’ clock in the morning (and even that’s a stretch some days). 

But Tuesdays are special. I still get up early, but I do my best not to wake Baz. It doesn’t always work, of course. Last week I tripped over the hamper on my way out of the toilet and wound up on the floor. He was only mad for about thirty seconds before he started laughing. An absolute git he is… but I love to see him laugh, even when it’s at me.

I didn’t wake him this morning though. I’m busy making tea and scones for us (Baz got hold of the sour cherry recipe from Cook Pritchard), some rashers of bacon, and eggs, too. I knocked over the kettle once with one of my wings–the buggers are too big for our flat’s kitchen–but caught it with my tail. All is well and quiet.

I’ve just removed the scones from the oven when I feel Baz press up behind me. I can’t help but grin as he runs his hands down my body and kisses my neck. His hair tickles my ears, but I don’t mind. He reaches down and grabs my bare buttocks, giving them a squeeze.

“Feeling cheeky this morning, are we?” he asks. I can hear the smile in his voice. Tuesday mornings are the best.


	2. I Always Win (Enter Drarry)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General/Plenty of fluff

**Baz**

“Absolutely not,” I say, reclining into the sofa. I couldn’t care less which character I play as, but it’s second nature for me to get him riled up.

“You have to pick someone else! _I’m_ Draco, you can’t play as him, too!” Snow is sitting on the floor in front of the telly. He’s practically shouting now and waving his controller around like a lunatic. It takes everything in me not to smile, but if I do then it’s game over. And I still like this game of teasing him (because I always win).

Heat rises in his cheeks and his bronze curls bounce wildly as he continues ranting. “If we’re both the same people, it’ll get confusing! I can’t–you! GOD, you’re so annoying! JUST PICK SOMEONE ELSE. BE HARRY! I DON’T– _WHAT_?!”

I’m trying so hard to keep a smile from appearing that my face is starting to hurt from effort, and I suspect I look pained, but I’m not about to lose. I roll my eyes. “Honestly, Snow, it’s a child’s game,” I respond, beginning to examine my nails to prove my disinterest. “It’s Lego Harry Potter, for Crowley’s sake.”

“You”–he jabs a finger in my direction–“are impossible! You–”

And then I burst out laughing. I can’t help it when he’s like this, so passionate and fiery and mad at me. The pink flush of his cheeks just makes it all the better. I’m laughing so hard that now _I_ sound like the lunatic, but I can’t stop myself. I try to speak, but it’s hard to do, and I end up blundering just as much as he does. “You-hahahaha-you thought-hahaha-I’m so-I just-" I can't get a single sentence out. It's been ages since I laughed this hard.

Snow squints his eyes, refusing to get caught up in what I find to be utterly hilarious. “You’re being a dick on purpose.”

I nod through my unrestrained cackling. I try to get a grip on myself, but nothing can stem this tide of joy.

“Fine,” he says. “Two can play that game.”

“What? Are you gonna pick a different character?” I ask, still laughing.

In response, he stands and walks over to where I am on the sofa. He leans over me, placing a hand on either side of my shoulders to pin me back, and lowering his face so it's just inches from mine. It works. I stop laughing immeidately, overtaken by an entirely different (and equally pleasant) feeling. 

“What was that, Baz?” He asks with a smirk.

I swallow, but it seems I’m temporarily incapable of speech. 

“That’s what I thought.” He straddles my hips with his knees and sits down on my lap. “So, you going to play as someone else?”

“You’ll have to make me.”

He gives me another smile filled with mischief. “I thought you might say something like that.” He presses his lips to mine, kissing me deeply. I can’t even think, so I just hold onto his waist and disappear into the warmth of his body against mine. He bites my lower lip until I gasp, then kisses me harder.

“HA!” he yells, startling me. He jumps off and does a victory lap around the sofa, which is when I realize he’s used my controller to change my character to Harry. 

Whatever. I still win.


	3. So? Let Them See (us, being gay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> General/Fluffy and sweet

**Simon**

I’m sitting on the step outside the NAB, watching students spread out across the field. It’s a nice day–blue sky, not a cloud in sight. A rarity for London. Baz will hate it. I don’t usually like to come this far into the city, but I wanted to surprise him as it’s the last day of term. Maybe we can go grab a curry or pop into Fishers. Yeah, fish and chips sounds nice. 

A whole group of people start filtering out of the NAB’s double doors. They’re all dressed pretty smartly–I know Baz fits in here, even if he likes to pretend he doesn’t. (I think he does it for my sake, since I haven’t been able to get into Uni. I don’t mind though. I like working.) 

And then there’s Baz with his usual grim expression, joining the queue of people exiting. His hair looks even more shiny and perfect than usual as he steps into the sunlight. He’s breathtaking.

“Baz!” I call, hopping up and walking toward him. 

“Snow?” he asks. He looks puzzled to see me, but smiles anyway.

“Hi.” I give an awkward wave. I’ve stopped a bit short, trying to hold myself back a bit. “How was class,” I ask as I shove my hands in my pockets. Baz cocks an eyebrow. Usually I give him a kiss when he comes home, but we don’t really do that in public. There are so many people here–the walk is swarming with students. 

He considers me for a moment before he responds. “Good. A bit of a drag.”

“Really?”

“No, not really,” he says. He takes a small step toward me. “I quite liked it.”

“Yeah? Do you get to take it again?”

“No. Snow. What are you doing?”

“What do you mean?” I ask, raking my hands through my hair. I return them to their pocket prisons.

Baz takes another step closer, and I realize too late that I’ve taken a step back. “That. You’re stepping away from me. And you’re fidgeting. More than usual, that is.”

“Oh? I am? Oh, uh. Well, I–”

He cuts me off. “And where’s my kiss?”

I look down at the sidewalk and find my shoes are quite interesting to look at. He waits silently. Finally, I give in and say, “Do you want to? I mean, here? There are a lot of people. I don’t know, I don’t want to…”

“Don’t want to what?” Baz asks. His voice is gentle, but he’s stepped closer again. I tell my feet to stay put, and they listen. 

“Um… cause a scene? Or, I don’t know, embarrass you–in front of your classmates.”

I feel Baz’s cool hand under my chin as he tilts my head up so I have to look him in the eye. His expression surprises me. He’s smiling–no, he’s grinning. Actually grinning, and he looks like he’s on the verge of teasing me. I feel an ache in my chest. I _want_ to kiss him, so, so badly. 

His voice is still soft when he answers me. “Snow. _Simon_.” Well, I guess this just got serious. “I come to classes in pink suits and flowered shirts. I have the best-manicured hands in all of LSE, women included. I spend my free time on campus reading Maya Angelou and _Outlander_. Honestly, anyone who hasn’t realized that I’m as queer as they come is unbearably thick. And of course”–he pauses to clear his throat, and the lightest tinge of pink creeps up his neck–“the most obvious clue to my sexuality might be that I’ve told them all about you. Do you really want them to think I’m so impossible that my own boyfriend can’t stand to kiss me?”

It takes me second to take in what he’s said. I keep opening and closing my mouth, but it’s hard work trying to figure out the words I want to say.

“You–you told them? About me?” I can’t believe that Baz willingly shared anything about himself, let alone about us. Something warm blooms in my chest.

“Well,” he begins, pausing to pick a nonexistent lint from his shirt. “Some of the guys were measuring up their girlfriends, if you will, and I couldn’t help but brag… about you.”

Now I’m the one grinning. He’s probably going to tell me I look stupid, but I don’t care. I’m still nervous though, so I ask him, “And what if someone sees us and, uh, doesn’t like it?”

“So?” He asks, wrapping his arms around my waist and pulling me close. “Let them see.” And with that, he leans down and starts kissing me. His lips are cool and he tastes like mint, and–Merlin!

I break away. “Baz, you’re going to char!”


	4. Let it Snow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In which Baz and Simon get into a totally friendly competition that no one is going to take too seriously at all.

**Baz**

I excel in many departments. I’ve cultivated my wardrobe to near perfection, though I’m in need of a new jacket for summer (I’ve got my eye on Giorgio Armani’s single-breasted floral watercolour-print suit). I’ve quite mastered spellcasting and rank at the top of every class I’ve taken at Watford and LSE, from Latin and Elocution to International Political Economy. Not to mention, I can catch, break, and bleed any animal dry before they’ve even blinked. I’m intelligent and cunning and level-headed beyond compare.

I don’t know how it is I’ve gotten roped into baking tarts. And I absolutely don’t know how it is that Snow is _beating me_ at baking tarts.

They’re tarts, for Crowley’s sake! It should be a simple task to execute. It’s a matter of science and practicality. You read the recipe, you follow the recipe, and you _should_ have tarts. I wouldn’t even be baking in the first place if Mordelia and Daphne hadn’t asked us to help them.

Snow and I had just come back from a walk around our new grounds. Since we had to abandon Pitch manor, we’ve moved to a bigger, newer manor in Oxford. It’s been a difficult adjustment—going to see my family on the holidays and being away from the last place I celebrated with my Mum. I don’t even remember that last Christmas with her, but it still hurts to know I’ll never celebrate their again. 

I think Snow knows how I’m feeling. He started to apologize on our walk, saying something about the manor, but I wouldn’t let him. The Dead Zone wasn’t his fault. Well, it was, but he never intended to create it. 

We came in through the back door that leads through the kitchen, and I was fully intent on getting Snow alone so he could warm me up properly. I should have known better. We’d barely walked ten feet before he stopped dead in his tracks, staring in awe at the culinary explosion that had occurred in our absence. Daphne saw the look on his face, and she’s well aware of his love for food, so she invited him to join her at the counter. He seemed nervous, colour rising up his neck as his jaw hung open (mouth breather), but he nodded and walked over to her. She set him to work at the island laden with flour and butter and sugar and whatever else goes into tarts.

“Come on, Basilton, give us a hand,” Daphne said. 

Simon whipped around and gave me one of his big, dumb smiles, and I knew there was no getting out of it. I sighed and donned the apron that’s always hanging near the refrigerator, deciding I would at least preserve my clothes as best I could. Although considering I can feed without getting a drop of blood on my trousers, I wasn’t too worried.

Mordelia suggested we each make our own tarts—a little friendly competition. I was going to tell her what a useless idea that was when I caught Snow’s eye. He waggled his eyebrows and gave me a grin, clearly trying to provoke me, the tosser. Of course it worked.

We’ve been at it for an hour, and I’ve decided that making dough ought to be considered a viable form of torture. Daphne keeps peeking over my shoulder, telling me my butter’s not mixed well or that it’s going to melt. Meanwhile Snow’s tart dough is “perfectly laminated.” I’m about to lose it. 

Snow _would_ be exceptional at anything involving sticks of butter. 

I glance over to his side of the counter. He’s rolling out the dough, working meticulously to keep it even and smooth. Unlike mine, his dough is a near-perfect circle. He sprinkles a pinch of flour on the top as his roller starts to stick. I’m trying to come up with some way to tease him when I look up at his face.

There’s a smile playing around his lips. Even in profile, I can tell how content he is. He seems totally peaceful and at ease. He’s rarely this calm unless he’s falling asleep. Snow must sense I'm looking at him (ogling, more like), because he turns and flashes me a grin. I smile back because I’m weak. Domesticity is doing me no favours if I can’t keep my mind on the prize: defeating my sworn pastry nemesis.

Snow suddenly stops what he’s doing to cast a glance over his shoulder to where Mordelia and Daphne are bent over their own dough. I look over at them, too--what's he worried about? Then he gives me a mischievous look and, before I know it, has shoved an entire handful of butter to his mouth. I suppress a gag.

“That’s revolting, Snow!” I hiss. I can’t believe I’m in love with such an uncultured man. 

He shrugs and swallows, and then says, “It’s really good butter. Here”—he wipes his hands on his pants like a heather—“your dough needs a little more flour.” He dips his hand into the bag to retrieve a small handful and moves to sprinkle some atop my dough. 

“Sabotage!” I cry, knocking his wrist backward.

The flour flies into the air.

And then it rains down and coats me, Snow, and everything on the counter and floor in a thin, white, powdery layer. I turn to him and cock an eyebrow. 

“Graceful as ever, Snow.”

“Me? M— _me?_ I was trying to help you, you absolute—you—you absolute nutter!”

“Help me? Oh, that’s a laugh, Snow. You were trying to sabotage my efforts!”

He mutters, “I don’t think I could’ve made it worse,” under his breath, when he knows perfectly well I can hear him. 

“How dare you! Your tart is hardly better than mine, but I guess now we’ll never know.” I fold my arm crossly and decide to glare at him. I can at least win at staring, if nothing else.

Snow cracks a smile, obviously trying to catch me off guard. 

“What?” I ask. I still haven’t blinked. He’s done so twice though, so I’m already in the lead.

His smile just gets wider and giggles. He _giggles_ , which is hardly fair when I’m trying to be cross. He pipes up, “Baz. I think you have something on your—on your . . . everywhere.” 

I roll my eyes as hard as I can, but struggle to keep my frown in place. I will not fall for his adorable smile or the way I can see his freckles underneath the flour. I will be strong. 

He snorts.

And it’s all over. The smiles escapes anyway and starts parading around my face, putting the Pitch family name to shame.

“Really, Snow?” I say, my voice dripping with sarcasm. “You have a bit of something on your everywhere, too.”

“Do I?” he asks. His brow furrows, but he looks far from confused. He steps closer to me, lowers his voice, and breathes. “Do you want to show me where?” There’s a daring look in his eyes, and I can feel my heart stop for just a moment (can vampires have heart attacks?).

I lean in, ready to lick him from head to toe, when someone clears their throat loudly. Seven snakes, I almost forgot Daphne and my sister were here. I was about to ravage Simon-fucking-Snow on the kitchen counter in front of my whole family. 

“I think you two will need to start over,” Mordelia says, looking far too superior for my taste.

I’m about to answer her, but Snow beats me to it. “We will. We’re not out of this yet. But first, I think we need to clean up a bit. Right, Baz?” The bastard gives me a wink and starts dragging me out of the kitchen. As soon as we’re out of earshot he turns to me. “Fancy a shower, Baz? I could use some help with . . . everywhere.”


	5. It Goes Without Saying

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baz is stressed during final exams at uni, but he’s got a not-so-terrible boyfriend to help make it easier.

**Simon**

It’s clearly the last week of term around our flat. Books, notes, empty coffee mugs, crisp bags, and Mars Bars wrappers are everywhere. For once, most of it’s not even my mess. Penny is a decently clean person (cleaner than me, that’s for sure), but Baz is a fanatic. Or at least, he usually is. He’s always on me about dishes or leaving my socks and pants on the floor of my room or throwing stuff in the bin. 

But this week they’ve both forgotten to be clean freaks. Instead, they’re spending every possible minute cramming for their final exams or papers or projects. I’ve listened to each of them rant at length about everything they’ve got to do (I’ve done a lot of nodding and pretending to remember). The only thing I’m glad about is that they can’t one-up each other, going to different unis and all. 

Penny’s decided to spend the day and night at a 24-hour coffee shop for a change of scenery and endless caffeine. I don’t blame her. I could use a change of scenery, too, and I’m not even in school. Instead I’m working part-time, but that’s okay. It’s better than nothing, and I’m glad I can at least pay for most of my share of the bills these days.

And Baz? Well he should be home any minute now. He practically ran out of the flat this morning. He overslept and couldn’t find his belt. There was a lot of gesturing and ranting about what a wreck it was in our flat, and how it was enough to drive him mad. He dashed out, beltless and with his hair in a bun. (He couldn’t find his gel either.)

I’m not the best at cleaning. Not that there’s a lot to it, it’s just not a habit. I had three things to my name at most of the care homes. _Clutter_ isn’t really an issue when you don’t own stuff. I suppose I haven’t been very helpful with chores. I just don’t see the mess—or I didn’t, until Baz got mad. 

So I decided to spend the day doing my best. I picked up everything and tried to shove it somewhere it belonged. (How did I not realize that I had 6 pairs of socks out here? More importantly, when did Baz eat a dozen bags of crisps? I know I can always eat, but he’s a midnight snacking fiend.) I did the dishes and emptied the bin. I even grabbed some of those cleaning wipes and washed up the bathroom a bit. Hopefully it will help. I ordered curry earlier, too. There was no way to know when Baz will be back, but curry heats up well. And honestly, I was starving by four o clock.

Just then I hear Baz’s key in the lock. I decide to get up from the sofa and see if he’ll accept a hello from me. He didn’t even want me to give him a hug or talk to him from the time he woke up til he ran out the door. He steps inside and I can see how incredibly tired he looks. He’s got dark circles under his eyes and he looks paler than usual. I don’t think he fed yesterday or today, and he always looks like shite when he waits too long.

“Hey,” I offer quietly. I step closer to him, but I’m not going to push myself on him. He seems tense. Maybe he’s still mad at me for being so lazy and unhelpful. “I’m sorry about this morning,” I start. I decide staring at the floor is a safe bet to directly the words in my brain to my mouth, and I begin tugging on my hair before I know what I’m doing. “I—I hope I didn’t make you late. Y’know, for class. I know everything’s been a mess and . . . yeah. Sorry.”

There’s a pause. “You’re sorry?” I look up at Baz. He looks a little said, but he’s also wearing one of his “you’re-an-endearing-idiot” looks, raised eyebrow and all. He walks closer to me and his expression softens. “ _I’m_ sorry, Snow. I shouldn’t have snapped at you this morning. You didn’t lose my belt, I did. Here, love,” he says softly. He produces a small bouquet of colourful flowers from behind his back. 

I can’t help but grin. No one has ever given me flowers before. “For me? Really?” I ask.

“For you.”

I’m sure I must be blushing by now, but I reach out and take them all the same. They smell sweet, and all the flowers are yellow and red. They’re pretty, and I tell him so.

“I’m glad you like them,” Baz says, wrapping his hand around my waist and resting his forehead against mine. 

“I do. But you didn’t have to do that, Baz,” I mumble. “I’ve been a bit of an arse and not picking up ‘n stuff. You were right to be mad.”

“Maybe we practice different levels of environmental cleanliness, but that doesn’t give me the right to be harsh with you. I was frustrated and I took it out on you. That’s not fair.”

“You’re stressed. Final exams and all. ‘S okay to be upset. You can tell me.”

“Being stressed isn’t an excuse for acting like a git. Can’t you just accept my apology, Snow?” Baz asks me. He sighs, but he doesn’t sound unhappy.

“If you’ll accept mine.”

“Agreed,” he says. Baz pulls away from me and glances at my lips like he means to kiss me, but something makes him stop short. He looks around the flat, apparently realizing I’ve (tried to) tidy up. 

I think I’m turning red again. The heat’s all the way up to my ears. “I’m sorry if it’s not done very well. I, um—I just thought, maybe—maybe it’d be easier for you to study and, y’know, get to class on time if it’s picked up. I tried to run the vacuum, but honestly that thing is—”

Before I know it, Baz has wrapped me up and kisses me deeply. It’s not aggressive or anything. It’s just like he’s trying to tell me something, and maybe this is the easiest way to say it. I get it though. I kiss him back and then pull away to hug him. Kissing is nice, but I’ve recently realized that hugs are good, too. He lets me, and we stand there for another few moments, coiled around each other and breathing in a steady rhythm. We finally pull apart, for real this time, and I grab his bag before he can stop me. Well, okay, he could stop me, but he doesn’t. I drop it by the sofa and then head to the kitchen.

“I’m not letting you do any work until you’ve had something to eat and drink,” I holler. 

“Is that so?”

“Yeah, it is. Just sit down for a few, okay?”

“Whatever you say, Snow,” he calls back.

I can hear the smile in his voice. I don’t know if he’d ever say it out loud, but I think he likes it. Being taken care of. Not like I’m his maid or anything, just that I do it because I like him. Because I _love_ him. I grab the curry out of the fridge and throw it in the microwave to heat it up. I serve up a bowl for him and a bowl for me, then microwave some blood from the fridge, too. A few minutes later it’s all warmed and ready to go, so I carry it out to the sitting room and set it on the table. 

Baz’s eyes are on me, I can tell, so I turn. I find him looking at me like I’m still made of magic, and it sends butterflies flapping around in my stomach.

We don’t say much while we eat. The telly is still on, and the almost-silence is comfortable. Baz downs his mug of blood right away and takes a deep breath, like he can finally relax. I stand up and go to the kitchen to get him a refill. He tries to protest, but his heart’s not in it. I can tell he’s still thirsty, and as long as he refuses to bite me, this is the best thing I can do to help him. I come back, set the mug down, and then resume eating my curry. It’s got loads of chicken and this creamy sauce, and even though it’s spicy enough to make my eyes water, I can’t help but shovel it in.

“Have I told you you’re amazing?” Baz asks, taking a sip from his mug.

I smile at him and try talking, but all that comes out is a hoarse rasp. Jesus Christ, this might be too spicy. I swear it didn’t burn so much earlier. Baz chuckles but hands me my cup of milk to try and wash it down. I flip him the bird while I chug. In return, he just smirks at me, but when I look over next it’s just a genuine smile. His eyes are crinkled, and a stray lock of hair has fallen in front of his left eye.

The pain soon dissipates, and I regain my voice. “Have I told you you’re beautiful?” I ask. And I mean it—he’s the prettiest thing I’ve ever seen. Baz flushes, a wonderful side effect of him drinking, and it makes my heart pound in my chest. I lean forward and tuck the lock of hair behind his ear. He blushes a deeper shade of pink, and I can feel a little bit of warmth radiating from his cheek with my outstretched hand.

“Dragon wings and a tail, and you can’t even handle mild curry?” he teases, obviously trying to distract me. 

“Shut up,” I say. And then I make him by leaning in and kissing him. His tongue still tastes a little metallic, but it doesn’t bother me. It probably should, but it’s not like morning breath is my favorite taste either, and I like kissing Baz too much to be stopped by, well, _anything_ , besides Baz himself, of course. 

He pulls back suddenly, frowns, and narrows his eyes. I wait a beat and raise my eyebrows in question. He licks his lips. “Fine. Maybe that curry is a bit spicy.”

“Ha!” I say, pointing my finger at him. “I told you!”

“Yes, yes, Snow, don’t get your tail in a knot. I said it was a _touch_ spicy, but I certainly didn’t say it was worth crying over.” He looks smug, the absolute tosser.

“I wasn’t crying! My eyes were watering, and you know it!” I’m not angry in the slightest, but I’m talking loudly. Too loudly, apparently—Baz places a hand to his temple and his smile falters for a moment. I lower my voice and lean towards him. “Baz, are you okay?”

**Baz**

How I got so lucky to have Snow fawn over me for a mild headache is a mystery for the gods to unravel. Snow’s eyebrows are knit together, and I can hear his heartbeat quicken. He’s looking at me like I’m both precious and fragile and, not for the first time, I realized I’m living a charmed life.

“Baz?” he asks again, looking worried.

“I’m fine, love,” I tell him. “Just a bit of a headache. Apparently even I have a daily limit when it comes to reading.”

“You can get headaches?”

“It does seem so.”

Snow is squinting at me and it’s obvious he’s thinking hard about something. I raise an eyebrow and wait for him to tell me what’s going on behind those blue eyes. He chews his lip for a moment, but I can see the moment he decides to say what’s on his mind. 

“Do you trust me?”

Not really the question I expected, although he’s asking me like he has something specific in mind. “Why, _Snow_ are you plotting something?” I flash a grin at him, and colour rises in his face. He gives me a crooked smile and shrugs before standing and heading towards the kitchen. He’s back in a moment with a full bottle of whiskey that Bunce keeps stashed in the freezer. 

That’s certainly not what I thought—or perhaps hoped—he had in mind. He has two glasses filled with ice as well, which he goes to set on the coffee table. He’s nearly about to drop everything, so I rescue the two glasses and place them down beside us. 

“You want us to drink?” I ask. I’m a little puzzled. Snow rarely drinks hard liquor, and he knows it takes more than a few drinks for me to even feel a buzz. 

He rakes his hand back and forth through his curls and then gestures at the bottle. “You, mostly. I think you need to relax and I—I’m not saying you have to be drunk, but, well. I thought maybe I’d have a glass and you could, uh, have the rest of the bottle?” He sounds uncertain, but I don’t know whether he expects me to get upset at his suggestion or just to turn him down, but neither is going to happen. 

I consider him for a moment before looking at the bottle of whiskey. “I have class tomorrow,” I begin, “and a lot of homework to do.”

Snow nods so vigorously his curls flop, and he casts his eyes down. “I know, it—it was a stupid idea, you’re really busy and I know they’re important, your studies—"

“I have a lot of homework to do, _but_ I would love to have a drink with my boyfriend.” Snow shoots me a grin. With that, I pick up the bottle, twist off the cap, and measure two shots into each of our glasses. He grabs one and I grab the other, and we clink the rims together before taking a sip. Snow practically chokes on the first swallow and sputters helplessly for a moment. I suppress a chuckle and grab a napkin from the table.

“Are you okay?” I ask, offering him the napkin. 

He gasps pitifully but gives me a thumbs up. After soaking up most of the whiskey he spat on his shirt and jeans, he manages to speak. “That is,” he pauses to cough and clear his throat, “a lot stronger than I thought it would be. Didn’t know Penny liked drinking petrol.”

I eye him for a moment, feel certain he’s not on the verge of another choking fit, then lift the glass to my lips once more. I drain the entire thing while maintaining eye contact with him. “Ah,” I say. “Smooth and refreshing.”

“I hate you,” Snow says, punching my shoulder lightly. Then he changes tactics and climbs into my lap, straddling my hips with his knees, and runs his hands gently through my hair, and it eases my headache for a brief moment. A traitorous moan escapes my lips and Snow rests his forehead against mine. Then he presses his lips to my temples—first on the right, then the left. He pulls back and climbs off my lap.

“Hey,” I whine. “Where are you going? I’m in need, remember?”

“Nowhere,” he says. Then he points towards the table. “Drink some more, okay? Be right back.” With that, he disappears into the bedroom. I do as he asks and pour myself another glass. This is surprisingly decent whiskey—I had no idea Bunce had such refined taste. I make a mental note to inquire where she purchased it the next time we’re in the same room for more than five minutes.

I look around the flat. It certainly is much tidier than it was this time last night. The rubbish at least has been removed, and Snow has made stacks of books, notes, and study supplies across the desk below the window. I don’t see a sock in sight, though I think I see some odds and ends sticking out from beneath a carefully placed pile of blankets in the corner. It’s nice to at least have the visual clutter out of the way—I can always hoover and dust after finals. 

Snow still hasn’t returned, but I can hear him rooting around in the bedroom. I take another drink. He’s too sweet to me, honestly. For all his blundering about and general lack of grace, he does know how to make me happier than anyone else. He might be oblivious to the minutiae of cleaning countertops or actually folding his laundered clothes instead of shoving them pell-mell into whatever drawer strikes his fancy, but he can sense when I need space, Thai food, or a drink (in all senses of the word). 

Snow finally emerges from the bedroom. This time he’s holding something behind his back. I rack my brain to think what he could have brought—I’m not one to turn down the chance to be ravished by my boyfriend, but I do feel a bit poorly tonight.

Before I have a chance to fall too deep into my improper thoughts, Snow reveals what’s in his hand. It’s . . . “my brush?”

Snow nods eagerly. “Can I—uh, can I brush your hair, Baz?”

“You . . . want to brush my hair?”

He nods again and smiles at me with so much sweetness that it warms me to my core. 

“Of course you can, Snow,” I respond softly. 

“Okay!” He walks around the sofa and retrieves a throw pillow, then clambers up, stretches out his legs, and places the pillow on his lap. He pats it excitedly and beams at me. “Go on then, lay down.”

I have to take a moment and just breathe him in, to soak up every bit of sunshine radiating out of his blue eyes. I doubt Snow has ever brushed anyone’s hair, and I don’t know how he cooked up such an idea, but he’s found something to give me that I didn’t even know I needed. I turn around and lay back, undoing my bun as I go. Even that feels better—I can’t believe I forgot to take my hair out the moment I came home. I adjust how I’m laying until my knees rest over the arm, allowing my lower legs to dangle freely.

And then I feel Snow’s fingertips trailing lightly over the top of my head. He traces my windows peak, then buries his fingers deeper in my hair and begins combing through the tangles by hand. It feels glorious. Each movement is soft and soothing—I wouldn’t have expected him to be so gentle. My eyes close, and I hum as he rubs gently behind my ears and at the base of my neck. 

After a few minutes, he picks up my brush, and starts running it through my hair. With the part of my brain that hasn’t liquefied beneath his touch, I realize he’s being as careful and precise as I’ve ever known him to be. 

“Is that alright?” he breathes. “I’m not hurting you, am I?”

“Not at all, love. It’s perfect.”

“Okay.” 

He continues brushing, never pressing too firmly and making sure to reach every inch of my scalp. My headache is all but gone, but I haven’t the will power to stop him. It feels so, so good. I can feel myself starting to drift off, so I ask him a question to keep my mind occupied. 

“Since when do you know how to brush hair?”

At that, he chuckles quietly. “Oh, well . . . um—I didn’t. Before. I—I saw Penny doing it the other day and asked if she could show me how. She even let my practice on her for a while. Pretty sure I left her scalp a little more sore than she planned. I made it up to her though, got her those Mars bars from work.”

“Remind me to thank Bunce for her sacrifice later,” I say. He asked to learn. For me. I sigh in contentment and focus on his hands and the brush running through my hair over and over again. It’s so relaxing. But . . . class . . . 

He’s so quiet that his words barely filter in as I drift off. “You can sleep, Baz. I promise I’ll wake you in a while. Just rest for now. I’ve got you, my love.”


	6. Why is Your Foot Wet?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on a prompt received on tumblr: "Did you seriously get your foot stuck in a toilet?" "Maybe."

“Did you seriously get your foot stuck in a toilet?”

“ . . . Maybe.”

Penny seems unimpressed with my answer. We fill our plates and head toward our usual spots. She’s got one and I’ve got two, so I don’t have to get up again (my shoe is still squelching unpleasantly). After we sit, Penny pinches the bridge of her nose and huffs, like she can’t believe I’ve already been so dumb this early in the day.

“And why did you have to shove your _foot_ in a _toilet?_ What were you doing?” she asks, her tone implying that I just woke up and decided today was a lovely day to wash my trainers in the lavatory. 

“It’s not my fault, it was—” I stop myself. I hadn’t actually got around to figuring out what I would tell Penny, but I certainly can’t tell her the truth. I think back to his lips, swollen from snogging. I can’t exactly tell her I ducked into the toilet outside of Greek and waited for Baz to meet up like we planned. I can’t explain how good it felt when he pinned me against the wall with hand before losing his ever-present self-control, when he kissed me senseless and ran his smooth fingertips across my lower stomach until both of us were out of breath. 

And I definitely will not tell her that someone came in, and in a moment of heroism, I decided to protect Baz’s dignity by leaping onto the toilet seat, only to slip and lodge my left foot in the toilet. Thank god Baz knew an unsticking spell. He seemed unwilling to dry my shoe and trouser leg off though, the tosser.

On cue, Baz strolls into the dining hall. He’s cuffing his shirtsleeves casually and doesn’t even cast a glance my way as he goes to sit down with Dev and Niall. I feel heat creeping up my neck and ears, but I can’t tear my gaze away. Is he going to look at me or go back to ignoring me, like he hadn’t just spent 20 minutes moaning dirty things against my mouth?

“You didn’t!” Penny screeches. Baz looks up at that, pinning me again with his cool grey eyes.

I turn to Penny. “Didn’t what?” I ask, trying and utterly failing to sound casual as my voice breaks.

She lowers her breath and leans forward to hiss, “you followed Baz Pitch into the lavatory to spy on him! Si, you’re obsessed!”

Relief washes over me like tidal wave. I take a deep breath and reply, “you’re right. I’m completely obsessed.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is based on a, ahem, _personal_ experience.


	7. Too Quick (Mumbled into Your Scarf)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Is Baz being...................................................................... vulnerable? Yes, and an idiot as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a tumblr prompt I received. Also, I guess linking your tumblr is a thing, so I'm simon-snows-pitch if you want to say hi or request stuff! (seriously, I'm always accepting requests)

**Baz**

Snow is more than a little uncomfortable being around my family, but he manages to bumble his way through dinner and charm their trousers straight off anyways. I’m more than aware that things wouldn’t be going this smoothly if he were still the Mage’s precious Chosen One, but I’ll take what I can get – and Mordelia insisted I bring him to her birthday party. 

I can’t believe how fast she’s grown, ready to start at Watford this year. Even if she’s not my mother’s child, she certainly has the best of the Pitch qualities, and I’m unquestionably the last person to say a word against her pursuing a magickal education… Yet after my time there and all the horrors Snow and I lived through (and fought through), I don’t know how I’ll sleep soundly for the next eight years. 

I feel a warm hand on my lower back and turn to see Snow looking at me like he can tell I’m upset. For being so daft sometimes, he’s certainly learned to pick up on when I could use his touch – though maybe it’s a simple matter of timing, since I nearly always wish to feel his hands my body. 

We bid my family farewell and promise to see them soon (I suppose I mean it, if I’m to soak up as much time with Mordelia before she leaves) and Snow heads for the car. I link his hand in mine and slow our pace. 

“Well, that wasn’t the absolutely horrible affair I half-expected.” I raise an eyebrow and turn just slightly. “What did you think?”

“What did I think?” he asks, eyebrows furrowed. His tan cheeks are flushed from the multiple glasses of port my father asked him to share in, and I can tell he’s a bit tipsy and trying to figure out if he’s missed something—or missed more than usual, that is.. “Of—of what?”

I shrug as though I don’t care about his answer to my next question (what a terrible influence he’s had on my good manners). “What did you think of celebrating Mordelia’s birthday with my family? Now that everything will the Mage has been put aside, it seems the atmosphere was—” I pause to consider my choice of words “—more comfortable than it used to be.”

Snow uses his free hand to pull on a couple of curls near the crown of his head. At this rate, I’ll be stuck with a balding Snow by the time we’re thirty. Finally he replies, “It was . . . nice? I mean it _was_ nice—I didn’t mean—I just, yeah. It was good.”

I nod quietly and silence hangs between us for a moment. I’m lost in thought, and I suppose he must be, too, as his curls are suffering more with each passing moment. We’re almost to the car when Snow stops short and pulls me around to face him. He looks up at me with a question in his eyes. _Why did you even ask that stupid question?_

It takes me a moment to speak, as a rather unfortunate lump has taken residence in my throat at the thought of saying what I mean to. I manage to clear my throat and tell him, “I know that my family is . . . eclectic. And they’re obviously as annoyingly posh as you find me to be. But, well—I suppose what I’m trying to say, is that you’re welcome. Here. You’re welcome here, to join us for birthdays and holidays with my family, whenever you want. Mordelia certainly wants you around.” I wave my hand carelessly towards the house and then take a deep breath. “ _Is_ that something you want?”

Snow’s lips twist up in a strange way, and I can’t decide if he’s repressing a grimace or a smile. I don’t have time to ask him if his face could make up its mind before he crashes into my neck and buries his nose into my blue scarf.

“I love you.” He mumbles it into the fabric, but I can still feel the heat from his breath like a kiss on my skin. He pulls away quickly and snakes the keys from my hand to open the car door. I guess I’ll take that as a yes, which will make asking him to marry me and take my last name all the more easy.


End file.
